I sat across from her. She doesn't see me, she wont ever again. How ironic, I thought to myself, last week I was reading "The Stranger" with my nose turned up in the air, hating the main character for not feeling anything about the death of his own mother.

But here I was, front row of the overly bright funeral home, its off colored, wanting to look organic wood wrapped me and the people I was surrounded by in an embrace akin to a stranger who had no real business knowing your thoughts comforting you on your emotions.

I was recommended the book by a coworker, not a friend but a coworker. She said she didn't understand why I was so high strung, said none of it matters and I should take joy in the simple things in life. I read the whole thing in a day and a half, out of a sick fascination and disdain for a man so unmoved by the world around him.

Yet here I was.

Immobile in my own emotions

Empty

Alone.

Maybe I missed the chapter where he found happiness, because I sit here, wondering where I could find the happiness in this